Just A Game Page 6

  Most Olympic track runners run one hundred meters in nine-and-a-half to ten seconds one time on a track. This was asking high school football players to run 110 yards in cleats, on grass, in under eighteen seconds.

  The drill began with Coach Stanson blowing the whistle once and the seniors taking off. When they reached the opposite sideline he would blow it again and the juniors started running. This wave of sprints continued in a steady pattern with position coaches keeping time for each of the classes.

  The first ten gassers went by easily, but by the halfway point the icy air began clawing at their lungs. The freshmen were the first to miss time, followed soon thereafter by the sophomores.

  The senior class was the only one not to miss, though both the Little’s were gasping heavily by the end.

  After twenty minutes of hard sprints, mercifully the practice broke and the players jogged back towards the locker room. Despite the cold, many were sweating and still panting as their cleats clacked on the asphalt.

  “Last one and the old bastard couldn’t cut us a break, could he?” Goldie said.

  “Hell, I think he did it because it’s the last one,” Marksy said. “It wasn’t about conditioning. We’re way past that point in the season.”

  “Jesus, my lungs are burning,” Rich said. Beside him, Lyle coughed and spit phlegm onto the ground.

  Outside the locker room a man in a red windbreaker and plain black ball cap was sitting on the single aluminum bench lining the building. He waited for them to approach and offered a half smile. “Which one of you is Clay Hendricks?”

  Goldie snorted and the others headed inside as Clay slowed down a step. “That’s me, sir.”

  The man stuck out his hand and said, “Coach Bruce Paulus, pleasure to meet you.”

  Clay shook his hand and said, “Coach, it’s good to meet you and please don’t take this the wrong way, but I have one more week before I’m allowed to speak to you. I appreciate you making the trip, but I can’t jeopardize myself or my team by speaking with you before the season ends.”

  Without another word he headed for the locker room, wondering what college would possibly be sending a coach out to meet him during a time when recruiting was expressly prohibited.

  Chapter Twelve

  Matt was the first to arrive. The game was set to kick off at eight, so he arrived fifteen minutes early with a large bag of chips and a two-liter of Mountain Dew. He knocked on the door and waited outside for Beth Anne to open it.

  “Hello, Mrs. Hendricks, how are you?” he asked.

  “I’m good, Mr. Richmond,” she replied.

  He smiled sheepishly at the insinuation and asked, “Clay around?”

  “He’s in the front room, go on in,” she said.

  Clay was seated on the couch, his feet propped up on the solid wood coffee table in front of him. His cell phone was pressed to his ear and he said, “Alright Chels, Matt just got here. Talk to you tomorrow?” He paused a moment before adding, “Alright, night!”

  “Don’t let me interrupt anything,” Matt said as he put the chips and soda on the coffee table and sat down in an armchair across from Clay.

  “No worries,” Clay said. “I warned her ahead of time you guys were coming over.”

  “No Goldie yet?”

  Before Clay could answer, the front door swung open and Goldie sauntered in.

  “Hey BA!” he called down the hall to Clay’s mom, walked into the living room and flopped onto the couch opposite Clay. “What’s shaking, boys?” he asked as he scooped up the chips Matt brought and pulled open the top.

  Clay smirked. “Make yourself at home Goldie.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Goldie said, cramming a handful of chips into his mouth. With the other hand he snatched up the remote and raised the volume several decibels.

  The game was just starting, the Patriots and Broncos live from Foxboro, Massachusetts for their annual slugfest.

  “Who you like here?” Matt asked to nobody in particular.

  “Broncos all the way,” Goldie said.

  “Pats for me,” Clay said.

  Goldie shook his head and said, “You’re a traitor to your kind, you know that?”

  “To my kind?”

  “Indianapolis, the place where Peyton Manning made his name, is like two hours from here. They’re the hometown team. Hell, your brother goes to school right down the street from them!”

  “Actually, the Bengals are the hometown team,” Matt corrected.

  “Yeah, but they don’t count,” Goldie said. “They suck, and have since Ickey Woods was there.”

  Clay couldn't help but laugh. “Ickey Woods. Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.”

  “Naw, but seriously, how are you going to take the Patriots over Peyton tonight?”

  “I’ve always been a Pats fan, you know that.”

  “What kind of reason is that? That’s like saying West Coast rappers and East Coast rappers have always fought, so they should keep fighting.”

  Clay stared with a blank expression at Matt . “Did he just equivocate me liking the Pats with somebody shooting Tupac or Biggie?”

  Matt laughed heartily and held his hands up at his sides. “I don’t want any part of this one.”

  Goldie stared at Clay expectantly, who finally said, “Alright, you know I’ve always been a Michigan fan, right?”

  “Yeah?”

  “And Brady went to Michigan.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Naw, not just that he went there, but the way it all played out. Barely recruited out of high school, even split time as a senior with Drew Henson. Drafted 199th in the 2000 draft, passed over by every single team in the league before finally getting picked up. I mean, I know he’s become a prima donna lately, knocking up actresses and marrying supermodels, and we’re not even going to acknowledge his hair, but he’s still my boy.”

  Goldie arched an eyebrow. “But you can’t really believe he’s better than Peyton.”

  “No better, no worse, just different. One was anointed the greatest quarterback alive from the time he could walk. The other worked his tail off. They both ended up in the same place, just took different paths and have different styles.”

  “If you had to pick one to win you a Superbowl?” Matt asked.

  “Brady for sure,” Clay said. “He’s got three already, thrives in the big moment. With the exception of that one Superbowl run, Manning is essentially this generation’s Dan Marino.”

  “Based on pure football skills, which is better?” Goldie asked.

  Clay made a face. “Why would you ever make that choice? That’s like asking who’s the better actor, Pacino or Deniro?”

  “Pacino,” Matt said.

  “Deniro,” Goldie answered simultaneously.

  Clay laughed again. “Thank you for proving my point.”

  “Pacino?!” Goldie snapped. “Have you seen Raging Bull?”

  “So Deniro gained some weight and learned to box,” Matt countered. “The Godfather II is the greatest performance ever by an actor.”

  “Yeah, Deniro! He actually made you believe he was a young Marlon Brando!”

  The debate circled for most of the evening as the Patriots methodically worked over the Broncos. Around halftime Beth Anne came in and wished them all good night and at the end of the third quarter Clay’s dad poked his head in and said he was going straight to bed as well.

  With three minutes left in the fourth quarter and the evening edging on towards eleven, Matt excused himself and headed out. Goldie waited for the game to end, took the rest of the chips and soda and headed for the door.

  As he got there, he turned back to Clay and said, “You really believe all that stuff you said earlier don’t you?”

  “What’s that?” Clay asked.

  “About Brady being the one to pull for, since he had the tougher road to get there.”

  “Absolutely,” Clay said without a trace of doubt.

  Goldie turned a
little in the doorway and weighed the response. “What’s it matter though?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who cares how they each got there. They’re both good. Just leave it at that and pick your favorite.”

  Clay looked at his friend, then stared out the front window into the darkness.

  “Goldie, we play ball on a team with six seniors, for a school with a couple of hundred kids. We live in a town that lives and breathes with the farm report each morning. I’ve got to believe there’s extra merit to be had from the person that clawed and scratched than for the one that was put in the best possible position from the word go.”

  Tuesday

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clay pulled his truck up beside the old white clapboard house and honked once. Any other time he would go in and say hello, but the clock on the dash showed it was already seven-thirty. Tardiness was frowned upon at Huntsville High, even for the best athletes in the school.

  A moment later the kitchen door opened and Natalie stepped onto the porch. She said something back into the house behind her, pulled the door shut, and walked out around the front of the truck.

  Clay’s jaw dropped a full inch as she did so, his gaze following her as she circled the truck and climbed inside.

  “Hey,” she said as she tossed her gym bag in and climbed inside.

  “Whaaaaat...” Clay said, drawing the word out slowly.

  A tinge of color flashed to Natalie’s cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Clay shook his head from side to side in disbelief of her comment. “Oh really? So you routinely curl your hair and wear heels and a dress to school?”

  Natalie shot a finger towards the dash . “We’re going to be late.”

  The gear shift moved smoothly as Clay swung it down into reverse and backed down the driveway. “Seriously, what’s the occasion?”

  “We always dress up for games, you know that,” Natalie said. “Not all of us get to walk around the school in our jerseys.”

  The thought of the volleyball team’s gaudy blue and yellow uniforms entered Clay’s mind, drawing a smirk out from him. “Would you really want to though?”

  “Well, no. I guess not. I’m just saying; this isn’t all that uncommon. No need to be poking fun.”

  “And I’m just saying, you look sharp. I’m not poking fun.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you. Was saying that so hard?”

  “You’re welcome. Was thanking me so hard?”

  She turned and narrowed an eye at him, then broke into a smile.

  “So, big one tonight," Clay said. "Let’s hear your prediction.”

  The Huntsville volleyball were scheduled to play Florence on their home floor in less than twelve hours for the district championship. A win would put them into the final four in Columbus at the Ohio State volleyball arena.

  “Well, us in a walk obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Clay echoed.

  Natalie laughed and said, “I don’t know. It’s going to be interesting though, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh yeah, how’s that?”

  “Florence’s front line goes 5’10”, 6’1”, 6’1”.”

  Clay’s eyes bulged a bit. “Jeezy, they cute?”

  Natalie ignored the question . “Last game, we went clear to 31-29 to win in the fifth set. Florence hasn’t had a team score more than 10 against them yet.”

  “So they’re good?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “So are you though.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  Clay rounded through town towards the high school and said, “Random question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You think you’ll miss it?”

  Natalie raised her eyebrows a fraction of an inch. “Playing volleyball? Or all of this?” As she spoke, she waved her hand in a circular motion towards town.

  “Yes.”

  She looked over and flashed another smile. “Yes and no. It’s different for girls here.”

  “How so?”

  “Look, don’t take this the wrong way cause you know I adore you, but we’re in the district finals. We’re one of the eight best teams in the state. You guys are good, but aren’t even going to the playoffs.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m just saying, two nights ago we had a bonfire for the football team. Friday we’ll have a pep rally.”

  The truck turned into the high school parking lot and Clay conceded, “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  “And to answer your other question, I don’t know that I’ll miss playing volleyball all that much when I’m done.”

  “Really? You play like you love it.”

  “Some parts of it I do. I love the girls, traveling to road games on the bus, seeing you guys all going crazy for us at games. Far as playing goes though? I’m tired of always having a dislocated finger or two, of having to tape my ankles everyday, of having bruises on my hips from diving. I’ll ride this train as far as it goes, but I won’t be sad to get off when it stops.”

  Clay put the truck in park and smiled from the corner of his mouth. “Nice metaphor. I like it.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for the ride too.”

  “Always a pleasure. Same time tomorrow?”

  “If you’d be so kind.”

  Natalie grabbed her bag from the seat between them and they both hopped out of the truck. “So, what’s your prediction for tonight?” she asked.

  “Huntsville pulls the upset behind a monster effort from Natty P!” Blake said, drifting away from her towards the locker room.

  “Monster effort, huh?”

  “Heck yeah,” Clay said, opening the locker room door behind him. He motioned at her outfit and said, “Look good, play good!”

  She smiled and waved as he disappeared inside.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Every Friday the varsity cheerleaders decorated the senior football player’s lockers. Each year, the cheerleaders divvied up the players, bringing them various snacks and treats and covering their lockers in everything from glitter to streamers.

  Usually each cheerleader had a couple of players she was in charge of, but with the small senior class the division was an even one-to-one for everybody. What resulted was each player got twice the attention as usual.

  Clay walked down the long hallway towards his locker, not even bothering to glance at numbers as he walked straight for the one that was engulfed from bottom to top in signs. The fact that the cheerleader assigned to him was his girlfriend made his even more conspicuous than most.

  Clay unlatched his lock and swung it open, tossing in a few things and digging out his geometry book. He pushed it shut without thinking and a few of the signs drifted from the door to the ground.

  He knelt down to pick them and as he tossed them into the top shelf of his locker heard the words, “So that’s how you treat my hard work, huh?”

  Clay half smiled and closed the door to find Chelsie standing behind it. “Wow. That’s what you got from that? Not that the tape had dried out? Or that the signs were too heavy? Just that I didn’t like them?”

  She raised her eyebrows in suspicion . “Really? Not some lame attempt to get rid of them one by one?”

  Clay swung an arm around her shoulder . “How could I not like a sign that says ‘This Hornet makes me Horney’?”

  She giggled and whispered, “Now you know that sign was strictly for your eyes only. That one never made the locker.”

  “Why is that, by the way?”

  Chelsie jabbed him once in the ribs and said, “Not exactly public knowledge you know.”

  “Oh. Huh,” was all Clay responded.

  “So, how was the trip to school today?” Chelsie asked as the ambled around a corner, underclassmen bustling by.

  Clay rolled his eyes . “Aw hell, here we go.”

  “I’m just asking!”

  “It was fine, thanks,” Clay responded, a disbelieving smile across his
face.

  “Okay,” Chelsie said, raising her right hand so her palm was flat in the air.

  Together they circled the halls toward the cafeteria, where the senior class congregated each morning before class. As they approached, Chelsie pulled his arm towards the gym and said, “Hey, come this way instead.”

  Clay glanced towards the cafeteria with his lips pursed as if to ask why, but allowed himself to be pulled behind her. They walked in silence down another long hallway and circled into the gym.

  Inside, a couple of freshman scurried through in various directions, but otherwise nobody was around. The bleachers were all pushed back for the impending gym class and a row of ping pong tables was set up along the far wall.

  They walked several feet into the gym before Chelsie abruptly stopped and whirled around. The move surprised Clay as he pulled up short and asked, “Alright, what’s up?”

  Without answering she held her books away from her and rifled through, pulling out a large white envelope. She eyed it nervously for a moment, exhaled and extended the package towards Clay.

  Still not entirely sure what was going on, Clay accepted the envelope. “What’s this?”

  She said nothing as he glanced down to see the words “Indiana University – Department of Admissions” stamped across the top left corner.

  “Open it,” she whispered.

  He kept his eyes locked on it and said, “What’s it say?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t looked yet. I want you to do it.”

  “Chels, this is yours. You should do it.”

  She shook her head from side to side, her ponytail swinging behind her . “I can’t. My stomach’s been in knots all morning.”

  “When did it arrive?”

  “Yesterday, though I didn’t see it until this morning. Mom didn’t know I had applied and just tossed it into the pile with the other college magazines.”

  “I didn’t know you applied either.”